Damned
dis.claimed.
Her hands are slight and small, and she can clearly remember that he took every chance he could to hold them, grasp and pull her to him – dignity be damned with her hands in his and her pressed against his chest and the biggest, lamest grin spread far and wide across his face –
But no more. It's just how he use to take her hands. It's just a memory; for all that it's vivid. She presses her tongue into her cheek, but does not bite down – does not believe in spreading the pain to take away the strain on her mind; that she's a widow and hardly ever got a chance to get past the newly-wed stage to the 'I hate you, but I love you; more than I express when you do stupid things and misplace my shoes and we are old together and cranky together and all our charm was wasted on each other – it's not waste, though, because we lack regret and move your feet, you big oaf" –
No, she does not believe it would do him due honor to attempt to relief herself of this. Sometimes, she doesn't even think it would work, anyway. He is too precious a thing to let a bite on her tongue give away. Was. Is. Yes, she won't give him away, and holds her hands clasped to her chest in such a fashion over her breast that is telling and is giving her away –
So he takes them, ignoring her bitter, polite smile, and – dignity be damned – wraps her hands around a sword and tells her to swing it, just once, and when she does she feels the pull and it is all so clear, all so vivid –
She remembers his hands holding hers, but now she holds her own.